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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671249">The outcasts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_eike/pseuds/die_eike'>die_eike</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Mirror-Visitors [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La Passe-Miroir | The Mirror Visitor - Christelle Dabos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Winter's Promise, Action/Adventure, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Bandits &amp; Outlaws, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, Gen, Minor Character Death, Narcotics, Original Character(s), Persuasives, Plotty, Politics, Snow and Ice, Spin-Off, Spoilers Missing of Clairdelune, The Pole, Thorn POV, Whump, Winter, Worldbuilding, invisibles, minor Thorn &amp; Berenilde, minor Thorn/Ophelia, outcasts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:35:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_eike/pseuds/die_eike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Treasurer Thorn receives a message. Several hours later, he is doing his best not to freeze to death. But then he gets accused of murder.<br/> </p><p> <em>Thorn halted himself from creating scenarios. They would turn his stomach, throb in his nerves, flood his thoughts. And right now he desperately needed both his guts and his wits.</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Mirror-Visitors [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023420</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the sequel to "The Animists Promise", however, it also reads as a stand-alone work. I will wander off the lines of the original a bit for this little spin-off, but try to stay as much in canon as possible for this little adventure.  </p><p>With this work, I invite you to follow Thorn to the outcasts (what is he doing there, and why?). If you rather like the usual one-shots, I plan to return to those after his return to Citaceleste, and will stay, as usual, close to the original.</p><p>Disclaimer: I do not own any property rights to the figures, magic or world I used in this fanfic, they are all Christelle Dabos'. I don't make money from this, it is just for fun.</p><p>Chapter 1 - The Storm: Thorn finds himself in a blizzard<br/>Chapter 2 - The Invisibles: Thorn finds himself in some strange company<br/>Chapter 3 - The rules of the game: Thorn finds some time to brood<br/>Chapter 4 - The passage: Thorn stumbles<br/>Chapter 5 - The Tri-Families Council: A plan comes to fruition<br/>Chapter 6 - The memory: An assassination fails<br/>Chapter 7 - The Duel: A verdict is reached<br/>Chapter 8 - Company: Intruders are not welcome guests<br/>Chapter 9 - Strategies</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Revised and edited on January 2021.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From all the intricate equations that could describe men's perception of the universe, putting their approximation of what reality actually was into a frame and order, it was a mathematical statement of utmost simplicity that determined the situation Thorn currently found himself in:</p><p>Sweat equalled death.</p><p>This was why he worked steadily, but not fast, even though time was short.</p><p>The storm howled around him and his cocoon of snow, turned the half-light of the polar night into a dark wall of whirling and lashing flakes. Lifting the phosphorescent stick, he assessed the thickness of the walls by checking the wooden pegs he had driven into the mound from the outside. Where needed, he dug, and pushed the snow through the floor-level entrance. Out there, roaring gusts shoved him, tore at his clothing, searched after the slightest of weakness in his insulation. He breathed shallowly into the sides of his tightly secured hood, with each breath, icy claws pulled at the warmth inside him.</p><p>The temperature had dropped alarmingly. It was time. He folded up his shovel at its joint, stowed it away and dragged the saddlebags into his shelter. The roaring and howling immediately sank down to a whistling wailing. The blood began to flow back into his nose and fingertips. Crouching down deeply, he pressed the snow floor into a small elevation, pulled the tightly rolled-up mammoth skin from his pack and spread it out over the ledge. He wrapped himself in his travel furs and began the wait.</p><p>As soon as the message had reached him, he had destroyed it.</p><p>It had been composed of numbers. In a heartbeat, his mind had transformed the ciphers into elements of meaning. He had set out the next morning, the coordinates taking him past fortified settlements and frozen lakes; he had crossed forests of snow-crowned firs that stood silent but for the panting of his mount and the pulsing of his own breath; he had ridden until the muted grey-black blended into the indigo blue of the open tundra.</p><p>Northern Lights had quivered above him while he had spurred his beast. He had stopped in a world of snow and sky, glided from his mount, which had shaken its fur and stretched its long spine. He had marveled at the cleanness of the air, drawing in deep gulps of it, and at the stark beauty of the elements. He had been away from the provinces for too long, confined his life to the comfort and the madness of routine. His elation, however, had slowly drained away. When his gloved fist had closed around his fob watch, popping the lid open with a soft click, he had frowned and consulted both map and compass, repeatedly and pointlessly.</p><p>He had explored the surroundings: nothing. He had seen to his mount, unsaddled it, handed out rations, the beast greedily gobbling up its share. He had waited: nothing. When he had started to get angry, the beast had begun to whimper, slinking around him just past the reach of his Claws. Then he had noticed it as well: the wind picking up, driving the first fine flakes in front of it. Thorn had piled up snow to form a mound. The beast had circled around him, given a yelp and then disappeared into the darkness. He had holed up in his shelter, guarding the entrance. When the snowstorm was over, he made his way back to Citaceleste, the city floating high up in the sky. The staircase was steep, and wrong. It creaked and groaned. He took three steps at once, but then he stumbled and fell, fell down into a black abyss...</p><p>Thorn twitched and tore his eyes open, heart hammering loudly, muscles cramped, trembling. He coughed, and wiped away the frost clinging to his lashes. He tried to move his arms and legs, and, after finding them functional, he crawled toward the entrance. With hastened motions, he cleared away the snow that had piled up. Annoyance at himself washed through him. How had he lost control? How had his mind drifted so far, spilling into Memory Replay and then dream? He shuddered at the thought of what could have followed. He had to stay awake. With hypothermia, the normal functions of his brain would fail, slowly but surely. Growling, he watched the gloomy tempest for a while. Then, for lack of better alternatives, he lay down on his snow bed again. It was too risky to Replay one of his memories from Anima, any memory at that matter. He thus contented himself with mathematical problems, manoeuvered rigid movements on real panes and danced around the surface integrals of vanishing functions.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>The storm had passed, had bestowed a fresh, downy layer on the blanket of snow. There was a single spot in the winter landscape, however, where something dared to disturb the peace of the glistening white fields.</p><p>A shape broke out of an elevation, pecking its way out of the snow like a chick out of an egg: gloves, hood and the fur of a polar bear appeared, until a tall figure stood and shook itself. The remains of a gust of wind blew defiantly around the intruder and then faded away above the plain.</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Thorn staggered through the snow, sank in. The effort revived his body, caused his blood to pulse. Condensation dripped from the tip of his nose. Good. He pulled the glove off his right hand, stuck two trembling fingers into his mouth and produced a piercing whistle.</p><p>While he waited, he inspected the contents of the saddlebags. His axe was useless in the absence of firewood far and wide. Finally, he fished out a small canister. The gas flame would not radiate much heat, but he could, at least, prepare himself a warming drink.</p><p>He was in the process of erecting a low wall of snow around the gas cooker when he felt a warm breath on his neck. Spinning around, he met with a flash of golden eyes over a broad muzzle. The beast whimpered, took several quick steps backwards and then settled down onto the snow cover in a cloud of silky fur. It yawned pointedly.</p><p>Exhaling, he shook his head. He should have expected nothing less of a beast such as this. Sledge dogs might not always be obedient, but they were silent, resourceful and resilient, direct descendants of the huge wolves that roamed the woodlands of the provinces. Domesticized, raised and trained in the settlements of the Giftless, they became tools of an undeniable usefulness. Thorn took out as much dried meat as he dared and tossed it to the animal. While it chewed eagerly, Thorn turned back toward his bad excuse of a fire, warmed his hands by the gas flame, and waited for the snow to melt and boil.</p><p>He let his gaze wander over the frozen lands that dimly reflected the moonlight, forced himself to contain the disappointment that wanted to spread inside his chest. He prepared his tea and closed his hands around the warming cup.</p><p>First there was nothing, and a second later everything at once. Beast growled, Thorn's field of vision flickered, boots stepped with a crunching into the glow of the flames, figures emerged from the fabric of his perception, and Thorn heard the unmistakable clicking of guns pointed at him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Invisibles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Revised and edited on January 2021.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Invisibles. A stocky man and a tall woman. From the shadows of deep hoods, dark eyes flashed in hard, weather-tanned faces. Two pistols were pointing at Thorn; Beast growled somewhere beyond his field of vision.</p><p>Finally. Thorn's fingers twitched, he gripped the cup harder, inhaled the pine-needle steam deeply. It had been a Iong time since he had learned to Iook people in the eye when speaking. But he was angry. On the exhale, he lowered his eyes carefully onto his tea, banishing any hint of emotion from his face.</p><p>"You’re late," he said.</p><p>The blow to his back was strong and unexpected, he got pushed forward, the cup soared from his hand, the flame of the gas stove stuttered and then died between steaming holes in the snow.</p><p>The woman surged forward and slapped Thorn’s attacker across the face, hard, while the man kept his weapon aimed at Thorn, motionless and methodical like a hunter. Thorn’s attacker struggled shortly, then the taller women grabbed the smaller one at the collar and hoisted her up in front of her face.</p><p>"Composure," she hissed from between her teeth.</p><p>Thorn had repositioned himself and stiffened in expectation of more aggressions, but the figure in the woman’s grip only shrugged under her furs. The hood had gone down during the struggle and reddish blond locks now curled over the fur trimming. She licked a drop of blood from her chapped lip and then bared her teeth to a grin.</p><p>The tall woman snorted and shoved the other away, turned around and pointed the barrel back at Thorn.</p><p>"Gvido," she nodded at the man, "the camp."</p><p>The man broke free from his rigid stance and began to investigate the shelter on surprisingly light feet. Thorn sat silently, observed, taking in the body language of his capturers, processing it. The tall Invisible avoided looking him in the eyes, her features hard and set. A steep crease rose between the thick eyebrows. Only when the broad-shouldered man emerged again, he noticed a faint, nearly invisible shake that went through her body. <em>Fear</em>, Thorn concluded.</p><p>"All decent. Not a bad work, by the way, the quineze." Gvido winked at Thorn. "Should've dug a trench, though. That’s quicker. The mammoth skin as a cover - done. Breaks in far too quickly, a snow cave like this, or you suffocate in it, or the storm’s already upon you as you’re still digging." He lifted a mitten to scratch his mottled-grey beard and let his eyes wander over Thorn. "Coming down here right in front of a blizzard. You're luckier than you have brains, lad. Still, not bad for one of the city folks." He actually smiled.</p><p>Thorn stared, swallowed. Blood shot hot into his ears. Never in his lifetime had a stranger dared to address him like that. He wanted to raise himself up to his full body height, but the pistol held him back. Words shot through his head, got caught in his throat and Thorn dismissed them again, enveloped himself in silence.</p><p>The woman made a gesture with her pistol. "Come."</p><p>They led him to a small camp not far away from his shelter. Backpacks were placed in a row, the snow layer was disturbed by footprints. How long had they stayed here, watching him from up close? They searched him and Gvido took Thorn’s pistol from the holster beneath the bear fur. To his surprise, there was a fourth Invisible, a scrawny youth who had managed to put a muzzle and a leash on Beast. He kept to the background, but Thorn caught a glimpse of his hand lightly touching Beast’s fur and how a smile shot over his face, showing widely spaced, crooked teeth. The beast whined hoarsely and Thorn turned away.</p><p>Gvido and the tall woman worked on the packs and handed out snowshoes. It was the redhead's turn to point her gun at Thorn. "Decent, Gvido thinks you're decent," she giggled and gave Thorn a look he could not make sense of. Thorn tried to not pay attention to her finger playing with the trigger.</p><p>"I say, Neringa, I say, what if Lanky here is just an illusion? I say, you know what they are like, up there, the townspeople, the citizens? How do I know I'm not dealing with the secretary of the Sewer Inspector? Hah!"</p><p>"Bozhena." The tall woman’s voice was ... frosty, he guessed. Reprimanding.</p><p>Suddenly something tore at Thorn's forearm, cool air biting into his skin. His Claws buzzed, responded in the same instant. As if hit by a blow, the redhead stumbled back, spitting blood into the snow. A heartbeat later, Gvido was above her, pulling her to her feet. Thorn trembled deep inside. The tall woman raised her arms in a soothing gesture. "I apologize." She shot a glance at the redhead whose cackling lay shrilly in Thorn's ears.</p><p>"Ha-ha! No tattoo, but claws like a Dragon! Nerginga, that one passed, decent he is, our Lord Treasurer, ha!"</p><p>Thankfully, the racket was muffled by Gvido, who shielded the redhead with his body, addressing her in a calm but insistent tone. The tall woman stayed at Thorn's side while he bent down and laced up the snowshoes assigned to him, struggeling with his cold-numb fingers.</p><p>"I apologize," the woman repeated after a while. "Bozhena - she is... not yet herself again. Don't take it amiss, the use of our family powers sometimes results in strange after-effects."</p><p>When Thorn stood up again, head lowered, a hand moved into his field of vision.</p><p>"Allow me to make up for the rough start. I am Neringa, representative of the Invisibles at the Tri-Families Council."</p><p>Thorn furrowed his brow, observed the dark, wild face closely. Then he surrendered to the protocol.</p><p>"Thorn, Treasurer of Citaceleste." His voice came hollow and icy. "I am pleased…" he squeezed the gloved fingers shortly. "… to make your acquaintance."</p><p>"It was risky of you to take the message." Neringa spoke as she swung up her baggage.</p><p>"None of my enemies knew of my return to the Pole. As for the rest..." Thorn suppressed a growl. "Some risks are worth taking." He thought of Ophelia, of Berenilde, of her unborn child. Then he banished them to a distant place of his mind.</p><p>"I hope none of us will disappoint our mutual expectations." Neringa didn't smile, Thorn noted. She turned and gave the order to leave.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The gleaming disk of the moon had slowly crawled across the sky and was sinking into the distant shadow of a forest. The group of Invisibles followed its course, as soundless as the landscape, melding into it. A circumstance about which Thorn was relieved. Words would await him upon their arrival, words that should influence, that should persuade, words that should manifest a fleeting future scenario, make it tangible. But for now, there was silence, and this was something he was glad about.</p><p>He concentrated on his steps in the snow: <em>one - two - one - two</em>. While they tramped on, there was always at least one in the group who remained close to him, weapon unmistakably visible. As if he were a dangerous criminal and not an envoy. It was so exaggerated, it was nearly hilarious. They had enough proof of his identity by now to not fear an ambush. What were they expecting him to do, raising his Claws against them and trying to run? They were Invisibles; he wouldn't get far. He wasn't sure if he would be able to run at all. His muscles ached, his bones creaked under the strain of movements they were not accustomed to. Any trace of enthusiasm at breaking out of his routine had evaporated, and with every step into the unknown, he wanted nothing more than to regain a measure of control over the situation. He flipped open the lid of his watch inside his coat pocket, creating a barely audible echo to his steps:<em> click - clack - click - clack</em>.</p><p>The wind had picked up; it shook fir trees and the thin branches of poplars. Frost-hardy underbrush had thickened into groves, while slowly but surely, Thorn had fallen back. He was now the last in the line. His breath stood as a cloud of white mist in front of his mouth, his limbs were as heavy as lead, his thoughts as dull as a worn silver coin. It was with the last spark of attention that he identified the first signs of finally reaching some kind of settlement. Footprints, signs of lumberjacking. Traps. Soon: sledge marks, a whiff of smoke, a distant shout. The Invisibles accelerated their pace. The beast leapt forward, light on its broad paws, and was closely followed by the boy holding its leash. Through the shadows of the trees that stood sentinel in the semi-darkness, Thorn could make out palisades stretching up into the now moonless sky. The glow of fire leaked from between the wooden stakes and above the camp pale smoke gathered, swirled into patterns orchestrated by random gusts of wind.</p><p>Thorn shivered. How his body was yearning for food, for rest, for warmth. He clenched his jaw, closed his hand to a fist, dragged himself on. Voices echoed down from the towering stakes. A wide snowy moat stretched in front of a massive drop gate. Neringa shouted a court order, then stepped to the side. A wooden bridge landed with a crash, spanning the moat. Thorn observed how the backs of the others tautened like bows. Bozhena was suddenly close to him, weapon drawn, and grinned into his face. They walked across.</p><p>The settlement consisted of a huge tent, with smaller shelters arranged irregularly around it and connected by what looked like corridors, tunnels made of furs and hides. Thorn counted fourteen tents before the outlines of the structures blurred in the dark. On numb toes, he stumbled towards the crowd that had formed in the front court of the settlement.</p><p>"The Treasurer of Citaceleste," a thundering voice welcomed him.</p><p>A man stood in the centre of the crowd, as tall as Thorn himself, which was quite unusual. But that was also where the similarity ended. Muscles bulged under the leather tunic. An angular, rough face, speckled with firelight had turned toward Thorn, square chin raised, arms crossed in front of a broad chest. Thorn’s Claws stirred despite his exhaustion. A single drop of condensation ran slowly down the tip of his nose. From the corners of his eyes, he observed how Gvido, Neringa and Bozhena moved in formation behind him, forming a wall guarding his back.</p><p>"Welcome to Tent City, gracious Lord." The man implied a mocking bow and then took a single long step towards Thorn, who stood motionless, his thoughts racing in one rhythm with the blood rushing in his ears.</p><p>"Treasurer. Superintendent. Advisor to our merciful Lord Farouk in all things legal." The man had begun to circle Thorn, jaw clenched, eyes wide, piercing Thorn. Mental distress, Thorn judged. Signs of insanity? He wasn't as sure about that as of the danger of the situation. He stifled the quickening of his pulse.</p><p>Then the man turned to face the crowd, hands on hips. "Hear me, Outcasts! Do you know what I call this good citizen?" Excited faces flashed, eyes glinting full of torchlight. The man spun back, facing Thorn, his teeth bared.</p><p>"A murderer."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The rules of the game</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Edited and revised on January 2021.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The door made a rattling sound when it fell into the lock.</p><p>Thorn lowered himself onto the narrow plank, he bent his legs slowly and controlled, arranged pointed elbows on pointed knees.</p><p>His cell was more of a shack.</p><p>Patches of voices and the glow of oil lamps penetrated the metal-reinforced wooden boards. Worn reindeer skins covered the bare floor. The regular pattern of light and shadow whispered to Thorn, silently voicing numbers that allowed him to calculate the distance between the source of the light and the obstacles encountered along the way.</p><p>Sound and the coldness of his clammy fingertips faded into the background. They had neither beaten him nor otherwise used any unnecessary violence. This did not change Thorn's assessment of the situation: he had put his life into the hands of a band of lawless individuals. He could have bluffed; about Farouk being informed of his Treasurer's escapade and that maltreating him would provoke serious repercussions.</p><p>Thorn let his head sink into his hands. A snort burned inside his throat.</p><p>A bluff would do more harm than it could do good. That was not why he was here. Months of work had preceded this meeting, only to result into the scenario Thorn had dismissed it as the most unlikely: none of the Three Families could benefit if they harmed him. What pattern then ruled the way the Outcasts lived together, if not pure rationality, or norms laid down in orders and laws?</p><p>The Pole operated under rigorous laws. The laid-down set of rules determined the coexistence of the Families and the Giftless, including those rare events when the world of the citizens intersected with the world of the Outcasts. Even the gaps in the system were all too well known to Thorn and other courtiers; the games played by powerful actors in and around these gaps was as predictable as the increase in the waist circumference of the ministers.</p><p>In addition, there was the unwritten rulebook of the palace intrigues, which was framed by the laws and interwoven with them, and opened up a playing field of its own. The only impermanence at the Pole was Farouk, but even his constant variability was a law unto itself.</p><p>A stab drove through Thorn at the thought of Berenilde and her weak spot.</p><p>Farouk's interest and devotion was an erratically flickering flame. The oppressive scenario surfaced again: Thorn, fallen from grace, and Berenilde with him; Berenilde well advanced in her pregnancy or with a pale infant in her arms; cast out. What if she lost the child? Who would protect her from Farouk's wrath?</p><p>And Ophelia. Thorn swallowed. Hers could be a similar fate, in case of his failure. Would she manage to make it back to Anima?</p><p>And in case he succeeded...</p><p>At this point Thorn pulled up a wall in front of his spinning and extrapolating thoughts. A good chess player only ever foresaw a certain number of moves, in order to not get lost in calculations. If Thorn was right, if he could lure this new player onto the playing field, he would face the truly unknown. What were God's abilities, his strengths and weaknesses? And what was his goal?</p><p>Thorn shivered and leaned back, pulled his knees up.</p><p>The whole world consisted of laws, laws of logic, laws of relations and of possibilities; laws he took for granted, and yet he felt like a child, groping night-blind along a dark corridor, not knowing where he came from and where the way would lead. The elation had hardened to a small flame inside him, he had let it burn steadily, had nurtured it with the thought that he would use all the means at his disposal to illuminate the darkness. And that he would take precautions.</p><p>He put his arms around his knees and rested his head on top of them. Thorn finally lay down and spread the thin blanket over his body. They had taken his bearskin from him. God's challenger was a prisoner of the outcasts, at their mercy. He could not foresee the next moves of a game whose rules he did not know.</p><p>He closed his eyes and comforted himself with the thought that Berenilde and Ophelia were out of danger if he died down here.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The passage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Revised and edited on February 2021.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A Memory:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Berenilde, young, crystals glittering in her fair, long hair. She laughed. Thorn huffed, puffed and sent a puny clump of snow flying at her. His arms were weak, thin sticks that got lost in the folds of his jacket. But Berenilde shrieked exuberantly and threw herself to the ground in a theatrical pose. Thorn was young, very young, he did not understand why this aunt was so very different from the rest of his family. At this moment, out in the snow flurry, he didn't care. He laughed and even allowed the aunt to squeeze him, to press him into her elegant fur coat. He became very still in her embrace. Later, they drank cocoa and waited for his feet to thaw and get warm. Until today, the scent of cocoa was one of the few smells he regarded as pleasant. They ate gingerbread and white leavened cake with sultanas in it and spread thickly with golden butter. He couldn't get enough; he stuffed his cheeks with the gold of butter, of laughter, of warmth.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A pounding and a clanking. They had come to get him. Thorn opened his eyes and hoisted himself up. As the half-open door turned from the vertical to the horizontal, Berenilde's figure within it faded, was taken over by blurred shapes. Thorn blinked against the graininess until there stood a man fiddling with a gun and flickering him a glance. When the man stepped aside, a woman entered. For a split second, hope stirred. It wasn’t Neringa, though. The woman studied him from pale blue eyes, furrowing her brow. Blonde hair streaked with silver strands was tied back into a neat knot. If he had thought he could not feel any colder, Thorn had been wrong. He shivered to the chill suddenly spreading inside the shack. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.</p><p>"Treasurer." Her voice had a pleasant timbre, completely emotionless. "It is time."</p><p>Thorn rose from his bench and followed the Outcasts into the maze of Tent City.</p><p>Corridors connected the individual tents of the settlement, patchy passageways jumbled together from a wild variety of materials. Suspended from struts hung gas lamps, creating passing islands of light in a sea of shadows. Again and again, Thorn had to dodge low beams or sagging canvas. Muffled voices drifted through the corridor; here and there, figures emerged and immediately disappeared again. Behind one bend, Thorn's gaze caught at a small child crouching on a pile of furs. It kept watching him out of solemn, dark eyes before a parent pulled it aside. Thorn hastened on, the man and his undoubtedly drawn weapon a threatening presence in his back.</p><p>If Thorn hadn't been so tired, he would have wondered how tent skins were able to keep out the bitter cold of the polar night. If he hadn't been so weakened by the lack of food and water, he would have resisted the image that took root in his mind: he was walking through the entrails of a giant animal, a foreign body straying deeper and deeper into a hostile organism.</p><p>Thorn shook his head, which caused his surroundings to shake as well. He focused on the woman in front of him. She was portly yet nimble. Despite the fact that she slightly limped on her left leg, she moved with a vigor that spoke of a life full of physical exertion.</p><p>His own steps came dragging and flat in comparison. It was as if a fist pressed onto his head, sapping his strength. There seemed to be no end to this march, the clutter of struts, tarpaulins and planks, the irregular passing of light in the murkiness. He had been plodding on for an eternity, the tent skins shrinking the narrow passage incessantly, closing in, choking him...</p><p>No.</p><p>An impulse made him brush over his tunic, in the lining of which he had hidden his fob watch. Then he forced eternity into units of measurement. It was the seventh junction, thirteenth island of light, after four hundred eighty-five bumpy steps and two hundred forty-two dragging heartbeats. In other words: eternity had lasted about five minutes.</p><p>They now encountered more figures scurrying in the half-light, and the humming that Thorn had believed a companion to his headache increased to an audible, yet distant babble of voices. Many voices. People shouting excitedly; emotions surging back and forth. Thorn tried to swallow again. When the woman in front of him abruptly turned around, he stumbled to a halt.</p><p>She scowled at him in the lamplight, the fine lines of her face deepening into distinctive wrinkles. "Do not speak until you are told to. That is the only advice you will get from me."</p><p>His guards took him into their midst. Around the next turn, two warriors stood before a heavy felt curtain, the entrance to a tent. Firelight from the inside coloured the canvas a bloody red. Shadows danced wildly to the cacophony of voices.</p><p>If the twisted corridors were the guts of the tent city, this was its pulsing heart.</p><p>The warriors stepped aside and Thorn got pushed forward into the embrace of the dark curtain, it flapped across his face and he staggered through it, into the wildly thumping tent.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the late update in the midst of Christmas preparations. The next chapter is coming much much (!) faster, I promise. While the next chapter is going to move some serious plot forward, I will be moving out of my comfort zone in it as far as the writing goes (dialogue, dialogue, dialogue). I am looking forward to see how you will like it.</p><p>And to close with a few end-of-the-yearish words: thank you so much, my loyal readers, you're wonderful! :)<br/>I am scandalously happy about every single Kudos and comment I get!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Tri-Families Council</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Revised and edited on February 2021.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A stifling heat beat against Thorn's face.</p><p>If there was one thing that made him uncomfortable, but also almost irresistibly intrigued him, it was chaotic systems and the questions of chance and probability in the behaviour of their elements. Take, for example, a simple water tap that dripped at a certain frequency: the drops would fall in harmony, regularly, following the preordained laws of nature, their music creating a masterpiece of cause and effect. Changing the flow rate changed the frequency. Up to the point where the dripping overlapped, multiplied and the rhythm finally dissolved into the yawning maw of irregularity; thus shattering the fantasy of being able, by precise knowledge of all the initial conditions of the system, to foretell its future behaviour into eternity.</p><p>And if there was one thing that could turn Thorn's discomfort into aversion and nip any fascination in the bud, then it was an amorphous mass of already complex systems - in its worst case: a crowd of people.</p><p>They were all around Thorn; shouts pressed on his ears, he breathed smoke, furs and the sweat of excitement. The tent was immense, the canvas of the ceiling suspended from long, slightly curved structures with regular openings through which the smoke from fires and braziers could escape into the night.</p><p>An icy barrel bored into Thorn's back and urged him forward. He let his gaze wander over the crowd, acknowledging the one advantage that came with his body height: getting a fast and good overview of most situations. The Tri-Family Council, he deduced, was not only a gathering of three clans, but also a type of festivity. There was no comparison at all to the Family Council of Citaceleste, which was accompanied by considerable public interest, but in which only authorized officials were allowed to participate. Down here, old and young were gathered: a tangle of people in furs and ornamented leather, with fierce miens and brash movements, laughing, glaring, and gesticulating. Thorn wondered how meaningful decisions could be made at such a large gathering, with anyone free to attend.</p><p>The drawback to Thorn's size was that he stood out. Those who noticed him and his guards paused; gazes pierced him, scrutinizing his scarred face. Thankfully, the noise swallowed up the whispering and hissing that must have ensued. When he was plunged into the crowd, he tried to make himself as small as he could. Uselessly so. Every contact with someone else's shoulder, elbow or hips felt like a blow. The crowd carried him forward until he finally burst through it, into an open space in the middle of the tent.</p><p>Shiny reindeer hides blanketed the floor around a seat covered by a bearskin. The crowd formed a natural circle around the centre of the tent, with Thorn and his female guard was on the inner edge. When the blonde woman narrowed her eyes slightly, he followed her gaze. There, on the opposite side, stood the giant who had been responsible for Thorn's arrest. A chiselled silver breastplate unnecessarily emphasised the already broad chest. Thorn got a good view of his square-edged face, since he was looking sideways, addressing the people gathered around and behind him. His black hair was bundled into a thick knot resting at the nape of his neck. He laughed, slightly bent forward and folded his arms in a casual gesture.</p><p>Thorn continued to assess the crowd. An astonishing characteristic of chaotic systems was their tendency to produce structures of order where one did not expect them. He noticed similarities and differences among those gathered, and how they clustered according to certain rules in what, at a first glance, had appeared to be complete disorder.</p><p>Not far from him, Neringa stood in a group of Invisibles. A long red jacket fell down her straight back and was slit at the sides, revealing wide, dark trousers. She looked calmly ahead, silver-rimmed corals dangling beside her high cheekbones. When their eyes met briefly, she gave Thorn a barely perceptible nod. Suddenly, the line of her mouth hardened. Thorn frowned, until he noticed she had set her eyes upon the woman beside him. His guard smiled and the two women's gazes flickered back and forth. Finally, Neringa turned away, earrings swinging.</p><p>When Thorn focused his attention back to the crowd, he met a steely gaze. The man in the breastplate had noticed him, and he was no longer smiling.</p><p>"Nikolajs. Believe me, there are nicer things to behold down here than his face when he's in a bad mood. Still the same angry child." Thorn's escort was very close, almost sticking to him; he could hear her words despite the roar of the crowd. A strand from the golden bun scraped across his neck. He wanted to back away, but the crowd didn't let him.</p><p>Nikolajs, meanwhile, had straightened, eyes glinting as he took a step forward, into the empty interior of the circle.</p><p>It was a breach of some sort. Starting from a wave of people behind the man, the din subsided briefly, only to swell up stronger than before. Occasionally, a "Murderer!" rang through the crowd. People started to back away from Thorn and his two guards.</p><p>Thorn's fingers twitched, and he smoothed his tunic. The shouts echoed behind his forehead, his heart pounded deep inside his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he detected another movement: Neringa had followed Nikolajs into the centre of the circle. The Invisible folded her arms to the sound of the murmurs that ran through the crowd.</p><p>The shouts suddenly died away as crowd parted, revealing three figures. The youngest was practically a child, with slender limbs clad in rawhide robes. Her head was lowered, long, black hair partly concealing her face. The girl led a wizened old woman by the arm, who leaned as heavily on the youth as on the gnarled staff she carried. The snow-white hair hung in fuzz around her wrinkled face. Dark eyes sat deep inside the eye sockets, but sparkled like the pearls on the old woman's richly embroidered robe.</p><p>Behind the two strode a tall woman almost approaching Neringa's height. Her tunic red, she was a sharp contrast to the old woman's green dress. It was clear that she was a bodyguard, moving with a confident but reserved manner, occupying the space like a she-wolf keeping a careful eye on the weaker members of the pack. Her gaze searched the crowd on either side, stopping for a split second at Thorn, then moving on to Neringa and Nikolajs. Neringa's face brightened for a moment, Nikolaj's features smoothed out and he bowed his head slightly as the procession of three women passed by.</p><p>With some assistance and a groan, the old woman took her seat on the bearskin. When the girl had settled herself at the old woman's side, the bodyguard receded a few steps and stood on half-guard. Complete silence fell as the old woman started to speak. "Well." Her voice was a brittle croak that dissipated into the vastness of the tent like the smoke from the braziers. "Now we are all together."</p><p>She cast an uncertain glance around the circle. A pause ensued. Nikolajs started to dig his boot into the sand of the tent floor. The girl reached for the old woman's hand and squeezed it briefly. The old woman straightened up, her knobby hands gripping the staff tighter.</p><p>"Narcotics!" A ripple of shouts followed the old woman's croak. Nikolajs raised both fists above his head, crossed them and then thumped them briefly on his chest. Cheers rang out from the crowd behind him.</p><p>"Invisibles!" Neringa repeated Nikolaj's gesture to the wild shouts of her clan.</p><p>"Persuasives!" Seconds passed, murmurs rose. "Giedrius!" The crone’s hoarse call finally drew a stocky man with a receding hairline from the crowd, an elegant waistcoat stretching tightly over the curve of his belly.</p><p>Anxiety churning inside Thorn's stomach made it harder for him to read and clearly interpret body language, despite his years of practice. Yet something told him to take a closer look at this man. Something about his facial expression was slightly off. A smile flitted over Giedrius’s features as he stepped into the inner circle and repeated the same gesture with nimble hands. The applause of the Persuasives came out in a less frenzied, less energetic tone. When the representative had finished, he took out a monocle, which he began wiping with a cloth.</p><p>A pounding from the centre of the circle silenced the clamour of voices. It came from the staff, which its wielder knew how to employ to great effect. "The Council of the Three Families is hereby declared open, and so on and so forth." With a sigh, the old woman sank deeper into her furs. "Caiven, dear, bring me tea. You know I'll lose my voice if you don't."</p><p>The girl beckoned to a boy from the contingent of the Narcotics, who delivered a steaming mug on a silver tray, bowed respectfully, then quickly disappeared into the crowd again. While the crone drank, Thorn studied the exchange of glances between Neringa, Nikolajs and Giedrius. He had always thought of the Outcasts as a unit, welded together by decades of isolation and resentment towards Citaceleste. The pattern of the Three Families' cohabitation, however, was a more complex configuration than he had expected. What a viper's nest he had walked into, almost blindly, with a plan built on scant information and questionable promises. Whatever happened to him today, it would happen to him because he deserved it.</p><p>"All right, send him forward, the supplicant. Where’s the bureaucrat who has ventured all the way down into the provinces?"</p><p>Thorn felt how stares pierced him and how his blood reacted, rushing hotly into his cheeks. He ran a hand over his tunic and stretched. A few stiff steps brought him before the fur throne. Thorn paused indecisively for a split second, then indicated a polite bow.</p><p>The old woman blinked and stared at him for a moment, squinting her eyes. "Caiven. Vladislava..." She grabbed the girl's hand and turned to the bodyguard. "What is this Chronicler boy doing here? Where is his tattoo?"</p><p>The crone’s voice suddenly became hoarse and hushed. A shadow passed over her face, sapping the gleam from her eyes. Thorn leaned forward to catch her words.</p><p>"Is it time? Do we really have to go? Why? Mother ..."</p><p>The girl jumped up, causing Thorn to take a quick step backwards. She put her arm around the old woman's wrinkled neck and whispered insistently into her ear.  When she stopped short and looked directly at Thorn, her long curtain of hair parted and Thorn had to suppress a sharp intake of breath. A spiral tattoo adorned her forehead.</p><p>"Treasurer? Of Citaceleste?" The old woman's eyes were sparkling dark and clear again. With a grunt, she freed herself from the girl's grip. The thin line of her mouth puckered, then she spread her arms wide, encompassing Neringa, Nikolajs and Giedrius. "Tell us your business."</p><p>Thorn hoped his confusion did not show on his face. One moment he was a prisoner, the next an ordinary petitioner? He had already given up hope of fair treatment and had dismissed the previous agreements as a sham. They were parading him in a stage play for which several outcomes were possible - but he had a strong suspicion that none of the versions would be to his liking. So why bother with continuing his part?</p><p>Images filled his mind. Raindrops pattering onto umbrellas. Fine droplets of mist, coalescing, joining forces to break free of the surface tension, drawing quivering lines across a mirror. As a very small and unnoticed cause could lead to an undeniable effect, a small mistake at the beginning could result in a big mistake at the end. A cool stillness came over him.</p><p>Surrounded by a mixture of hostility and reserved interest, in the flickering firelight, Thorn knelt heavily on the bearskin.</p><p>"Venerable Mother." Thorn spoke to the sunken face, but he was also acutely aware of the Outcasts who stood in muted silence around the fur throne. "In a few months, the Family Council of Citaceleste will meet. According to the law on rehabilitation, Article 16, paragraph 4, there is the possibility of reintegrating the Three Families, provided this benefits the general public. I hereby offer my services to you. I offer to serve as a representative of the Outcasts, to speak before the Council on behalf of the Narcotics, the Persuasives and the Invisibles."</p><p>The whispering in Thorn's back swelled to a murmur. Thorn spoke faster now, feeling the tension in his neck, fighting the urge to turn around. His Claws stirred again, for the first time since his imprisonment. "In return, I demand the protection of the Three Families, beginning today and lasting for a lifetime, for me and mine."</p><p>A wave of shouts rose from the crowd. Thorn took another deep breath, then rose to the thumping of the staff.</p><p>"Silence! Silence! Nikolajs, quieten your Narcotics. Aye, I can see you. Step forward."</p><p>Thorn's Claws hummed and tingled under his skin as Nikolajs drew closer. The sheer presence of the man seemed to fill the inner circle, to constrict the space. After a sweeping bow, Nikolajs rose quickly and spread his arms. His resonant bass filled the tent.</p><p>"Barta-Euglenia, Venerable Mother. Brothers and sisters. We all desire an end to hardship and deprivation. We all ask for nothing more than our rightful inheritance, nothing more than justice. And justice shall be ours."</p><p>The crowd listened intently, interrupted only by shouts of approval. Nikolajs had spoken to the clans, his arms outstretched. Now he fixed his gaze on Thorn. "But not like this. Not at the hands of a bureaucrat who has committed a crime against one of our own. We want justice? Justice does not come in the shape of a cowardly murderer!"</p><p>The Narcotics raged, chanting their leader's name. The corners of Nikolajs’s mouth twisted into a grin until the old woman's staff landed on his shoulder. The din calmed while he rubbed the spot grimly.</p><p>"Hear me, people of the provinces." Neringa stepped forward, corals glittering, trying to outshine the sparkle of her eyes. "As you all know, we have been in contact with the Treasurer for some time. And entirely to our advantage: with his help we have been able to avoid the forest patrols, we could plan our hunts better, and we escaped police violence.”</p><p>Collecting reports of transgressions in the provinces had been easy enough. Bringing a tax investigation down on the responsible officials a little later was something he had been particularly satisfied with, enjoyed it even. Just like denouncing procedural errors in poaching trials. Building up a network of informants in the settlements of the Giftless had been a bit trickier. The reward for his efforts came in the ability to spread warnings whenever he picked up relevant information during ministerial meetings, such as the reinforcement of patrols, the plans for a new coal mine or the exact date of the annual hunt.</p><p>"And still I failed," Thorn whispered while Neringa continued her speech. Nobody seemed to have heard him.</p><p>“Treasurer Thorn took it all on himself and asked for only one thing in return. A meeting with the Three Families. A meeting for which we all -" Neringa paused and spread her arms in a flurry of bright red. "For which we all assured him immunity. Have we come to the point of subverting our own laws? We are outcasts, yes, but we do not break our word!"</p><p>Subdued approval for Neringa’s words came from the crowd, especially from the contingent of the Invisibles, but also, to Thorn’s surprise, from a not negligible number of Narcotics. Only the Persuasives remained strangely unmoved, watching the proceedings with indifferent, almost lethargic expressions.</p><p>"Giedrius," Barta-Euglenia grunted. "What is your share in all this?"</p><p>The little man smiled, stroked his taut waistcoat and with a bustle of quick steps, he lined up between Neringa and Nikolajs. "Dear assembled, Venerable Mother." The voice was soft and thin and Thorn doubted it could be heard by those outside the inner circle. "By the very laws of the Three Families, there is no question that the Lord Emissary enjoys immunity for the duration of this meeting. However – "</p><p>After regarding Thorn with a look from watery blue eyes - a look Thorn evaluated as friendly, encouraging, but he could be mistaken - he fiddled at a pocket, finally pulled out a paper. He pinned his monocle in front of his eye and read.</p><p>"According to Article 16, Section 7 of the Rehabilitation Act, only an officer in the mere capacity of his function is allowed to represent.” The Persuasive folded up the paper and stowed it away, monocle and all. “This implies a small but not unimportant addition in our case: that there must be no compensation for the representative, so as not to invalidate the application as such."</p><p>Voices rose. Apparently, Thorn had underestimated Giedrius's reach, who cleared his throat and looked around expectantly. The corners of Nikolajs's mouth twitched. The Narcotic crossed his arms and eyed the little man. Both Thorn and Neringa made a move forward. Their eyes met, but Thorn did not wait and pushed ahead.</p><p>"My position at court is ... special, you must know. Today I stand before you in two roles. As Treasurer and kinsman of the Dragons, I am entitled to speak before the Family Council on behalf of the Outcasts."</p><p>For a brief moment, Giedrius' detailed knowledge of Citaceleste's statutes had surprised him, but now the words flowed seamlessly from Thorn's lips. At least this part of his plan was based on a thoroughly researched component. A loophole in a system that was not designed for an anomaly like him.</p><p>"However, I am also a descendant of the Chroniclers. Being half an Outcast myself, my plea for asylum in times of need remains an internal matter of the Three Families and outside Citaceleste's jurisdiction. My petition cannot, therefore, jeopardise the application for rehabilitation."</p><p>"Giedrius, can you confirm the envoy's words?" Barta-Euglenia asked.</p><p>"Further verification may be necessary, although I consider Treasurer Thorn to be trustworthy as far as his knowledge of the law and its loopholes is concerned. Am I correct in assuming, Mr Thorn, that you hereby also present yourself as a member of the Chroniclers to the Council of the Three Families?" Giedrius asked.</p><p>A shiver ran over Thorn the instant he felt the trap snap shut. While Griedrius rubbed his monocle on his trouser leg and looked up at him, smiling, hot anger shot through Thorn's belly, anger at himself.</p><p>Nikolajs unfolded his arms. His hands slid to his sides, balling fists. "The Tri-Families Council... Wait. Wait!"</p><p>Thorn closed his eyes. He opened them to a hot breath sweeping across his face. A smaller man would have needed to look up at his vis-a-vis. As it was, however, Thorn stood motionless, staring, controlling every muscle in his face. Nikolajs was so close, Thorn could count the fine scars and lines in his face. That look in his eyes spoke of insanity, Thorn was quite sure now.</p><p>Nikolajs finally whirled around, facing a pale Neringa. "That means ... Your <em>Treasurer</em> may enjoy immunity, but not Thorn, Bastard of the Chroniclers!"</p><p>Then he sank to his knees before Barta-Euglenia. "Venerable Mother, I speak on behalf of all Narcotics. With the death of Rauno, our family has suffered a terrible loss." The giant's voice faltered, his chest heaved, but he raised his head, searching for the crone's eyes.</p><p>"I hereby charge Thorn, son of Natasha, with cold-blooded murder. I demand that the Tri-Families Council take up this issue! Today, we rejoice! Today, justice will be ours!"</p><p>The noise of the ensuing confusion washed over Thorn and interrupted the coherent stream of his thoughts. The Memory had lain dormant at the edges of his perception, resisting his careful archiving. Now it surfaced, unbidden. Impregnable as wisps of fog, the past began to envelop Thorn's mind. Sounds and movements of the here and now dissolved, gave way to a flood of sensations led by the smell of dust and metal.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, a big thank you to my readers! It means a lot to me that you have accompanied Thorn to this point.</p><p>Putting this chapter together was more difficult for me than I thought and I would be particularly happy to receive comments (including constructive criticism) from you. What was it you liked, what perhaps not so much?</p><p>I wish you all a very happy and better new year!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The distant voices of hangar workers mixed with the hissing of machines. Thorn was in a hurry. A Zeppelin awaited him. His departure – under the pretense of a mission to the Interfamilial Ark – was precisely timed. Thorn’s suitcase swung to the rhythm of his strides.</p><p>He remembered all of it: the number of crossbeams on the towering ceiling his gaze swept over, the angle of the electrically operated spotlights that illuminated his way, the pitch of the voice that made him stop in the midst of man-sized crates of boxes.</p><p>„Sir, Sir!“ The boy flapped his arms and slowed down his steps while Thorn put on his icy stare and clicked the lid of his fob watch open.</p><p>„A message, Sir, from Captain Bartholomeus.“ Thorn listened up. The boy drew nearer, eager to deliver the news. Or so Thorn thought. </p><p>In the same moment his suitcase slipped from his fingers and thudded to the ground, he saw the knife flashing. It was a work of silver; the white-knuckled, slender fingers were gripping a finely chiseled handle. The face was young and pale, with dark freckles and eyes that were framed by long lashes.</p><p>Thorn’s knees buckled, pulled him to the ground. The fob watch rolled from his fingers as a golden glinting bauble.</p><p>„Don’t ...“ Thorn pushed his cry out between lips that had become numb, but it was too late.</p><p>The look from dark eyes burned into his memory; eyes, which widened as the much too young body was thrown backwards.</p><p>Thorn sat up slowly. The attack had been a pathetic attempt at an assassination. It had been badly prepared and even worse executed. He searched for a handkerchief and pressed it over mouth and nose while inspecting the damage his claws had caused. The young man didn’t move. The smell of hot, sticky blood began to seep through his cloth and Thorn suppressed a gag.</p><p>He picked up his suitcase and his fob watch. He carefully wiped over the glass frame, blew sand out of the gears. Then he turned.</p><p>He had to make haste if he was to report an assassination attempt before he left.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The duel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thorn did not believe in luck. He didn't believe at all. He rather preferred to know.</p><p>His lips were chapped by thirst and licking them did nothing good. The heat, stoked up by the movement and cries of the crowd, tightened his throat so that even the small gulps of air he was taking would not pass. At least it felt that way. He stopped his hand before he could yank at the collar of his shirt and settled on carefully threading the buttons out of their holes.</p><p>While he shed his shirt, as required by the terms of the duel, Thorn's eyes lingered on Nikolajs' form. Yet he did not actually see the Narcotic. His gaze went straight through the warrior who was stretching his already bared torso, showing off.</p><p>What Thorn saw instead was a memory; the eyes of the bodyguard Vladislava narrowing to slits while she shook him <em>awake</em>. He felt the eyes of the crowd burning into his back. Hot embarrassment rose and tinged his face red. With a shudder, he reminded himself that any family gift had its limitations and that each of them harboured dangers. It had been a long time though since a part of his memory had rebelled and usurped his mind for precious seconds. Thorn gritted his teeth. Loss of control was one of the things he found utterly unacceptable.</p><p>He focused his attention back onto the ring. Laughter spiced up the din, turning it into a nearly musical chorus, as he folded his shirt into a neat pile of fabric and set it onto the sandy floor.</p><p>The whole atmosphere in the tent had changed. It was audible in the boisterous, almost joyous cries; visible on the bright faces of the children who scurried excitedly along the perimeter of the area that had been cleared out and delineated with ropes. A diversity of foodstuffs and drinks was brought in by youths who bustled through the crowd. His eyes followed those with an extra amount of attention.</p><p>Finally, there was the smell. Thorn threw up his walls, set his filters. He would not think about the smell right now. All in all, he came to the conclusion that the tension that had built up during the meeting of the Three Families would be released in a great spectacle, starring him as the main act.</p><p>He knew that this could not end pleasantly, for none of the parties concerned.</p><p>He had long since come to conceptualize the crowd as a beast unto itself. Scarcely had Barta-Euglenia announced the decision, when one mouth had already borne it to the next, until the murmur from hundreds of throats blended into a single exclamation: trial by duel.</p><p>The resolution of the Thorn-problem came in the shape of an archaic tradition from the world before the Rift. A world in which humanity had sought advice from, worshipped, and prayed to spirits stranger than those of the families. Although also practised at court, Thorn indeed found this custom extremely appropriate for the provinces, where only the sword and the hunt could drive back terror and hunger, where deeds rather than words counted.</p><p>How appropriate then, that Thorn did not believe in luck, and thus was fortunate enough not to have to believe in bad luck.</p><p>A hand landed lightly on his shoulder. Thorn twitched and turned sideways, while his claws reacted by digging into the nervous system exposed to him, making contact with pain pathways, only to fade into a strange void. How interesting. For once, he was more intrigued than irritated by the intrusion into his personal space.</p><p>Thorn blinked at the face that flickered into his focus.</p><p>"Why?" Neringa's voice came as a hoarse whisper.</p><p>Thorn squeezed his eyelids shut. It was not that he hated questions. It was just that the efficient way to answer them never seemed to satisfy the querier.</p><p>"For your peace of mind: I told the plain truth. As for the rest - there are reasons why I do what I do. Or choose not to. Mostly, those reasons are entirely personal."</p><p>Neringa took a step backwards, her gaze hardening into a glare. Thorn did not hold her attitude against her. That he had refused to undergo a Memory Investigation at Caiven's hands had been most unfavourable for his defense.</p><p>"There are no circumstances under which such an examination would have been a viable option," Thorn added, more to himself than anyone else.</p><p>"But -this- is an option?" hissed Neringa. Looking past her head, Thorn could glimpse the outline of Nikolajs.</p><p>"No," he said. "This is a trap."</p><p>After his observations during the council, several vague impressions had hardened into a solid suspicion. For which he was, of course, still lacking the evidence.</p><p>The corners of Neringa's mouth twitched. Her eyes wandered over his scars. Thorn folded his arms in a futile attempt of providing something similar to privacy.</p><p>"Good luck," the Invisible finally spat. She turned and, after a series of harsh steps, disappeared into the crowd.</p><p>Thorn was suddenly acutely aware of how heavily his head rested on his neck, how his limbs struggled with the simple task of holding him upright. He exhaled slowly through his nose, and guessed he must have lowered himself, slumped even. Because when the blonde guard appeared, she was on eye-level with him. She carried a water gourd. She observed him, impassive, as he straightened up, snatched the water from her and drank. When he had finished, there was the approximation of a smile on her lips.</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>"Nikolajs knows a thing or two about tactics, but he doesn't really care for strategy. He loves the stage far too much. Don't forget that, Treasurer."</p>
</div><p>Thorn's fingers tightened around the neck of the water gourd.</p><p>"I never forget."</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The crunching noise his nose made at the impact was worse than the pain flaring up behind his eyes. Thorn spun with his guard up and caught a hook that would have knocked him to the ground.</p><p>A shout, almost swallowed up by the roar of the crowd, released him. Nikolajs retreated at Vladislava's command. Thorn patted at the blood on his face, stumbled to his shirt, shook it free from sand and used it to thoroughly mop up the mess.</p><p>He had not done badly. When it came down to it, he could be fast. For instance, when a mountain of muscle lunged at him. He had dodged to the side, grabbed Nikolajs' upper body and toppled him with a clean foot sweep to the supporting leg. Unfortunately, the fall had not stopped Nikolajs for long. What ensued had left Thorn with a wheezing breath and bile in his throat.</p><p>Vladislava stepped into the centre of the ring. The din of the crowd softened into a murmuring. Now, the real battle would begin. The fight of the family gifts. Thorn steadied his breathing. He watched the children being herded from the front into the midst of the crowd, not without protest.</p><p>Nikolajs stood motionless on the opposite side of the ring, his shoulders rising and falling. Only his eyes moved, swept triumphantly over the audience. Scattered cheers cut through the expectant silence that had settled dully upon Thorn's ears. The buzzing of his claws arose from deep inside him and melded with the clenching of his stomach. Thorn stiffened and pressed his fingernails into the flesh of his hand.</p><p>Vladislava gave the sign.</p><p>Nikolajs wore a smile on his face as he danced with small steps along the periphery of the ring, testing, teasing, mocking. His every movement made the sweat on his skin glisten, a reddish sheen in the glow of the braziers. He suddenly leapt forward, teeth flashing.</p><p>Thorn dodged out of the way. Something grazed his shoulder, leaving icy cold in its wake. He threw himself back and lashed out with his claws. The connection vibrated like a string, strained, then snapped as Nikolajs took a leap to safety. Too late. The Narcotic raised his hands. Long gashes had cracked the skin open. Blood started to drip from his fingers. But he still grinned.</p><p>A tingling spread out from Thorn's shoulder, into his left arm. He was not sure about the exact workings of the Narcotic's powers, or Nikolaj's speciality. There seemed to be a distance component to it, similar to the range of Thorn's claws. He needed to find out more, and quickly, before his before his opponent could use his advantages against him in the full.</p><p>He cradled his floppy limb with his right hand and searched for a good purchase in the sand. Then he pushed himself off the ground. It was an akward attempt at a kick. Nikolajs dodged at the last moment and Thorn's momentum sent him nearly crashing into the audience. Behind the rope barrier, the crowd surged back. Thorn spun immediately. It had worked. He had broken the Narcotic's mental focus, who answered the attack with brute force. A kick cut through the air beside Thorn and hooked onto the ropes. Someone screamed as they broke out of their moorings with a crash.</p><p>Thorn's claws pulsed under the surface of his skin, urging him to action, straining against his command.</p><p>Focus. Control. Separate the tangle of raging nerves. Filter out an individual from the crowd-beast. Nikolajs was panting, faced him with a sneer. Thorn slid forward just a tad, with a nearly imperceptible movement. There. The Narcotic's presence beaded off his surroundings again. Thorn took aim with his claws. At the ribs. At the large muscles of his opponent's legs and back.</p><p>A racking pain drove through Thorn's knee, sending him sprawling. He breathed into the sandy ground. A face towered over him, grim. Then came an arm, ready to strike. Thorn turned. A chilly breeze brushed his forehead. With desperate strength, he kicked at Nikolajs, making him stumble backwards. Thorn came to his feet again, the pain fading before the pounding of his heart. He wondered briefly if this was a good or a bad sign. </p><p>His opponent stood upright, a long slash gaping red at his side. There was blood in his hair, Thorn noticed, and that it had come loose from the knot in his neck. A glint appeared in the Narcotic's eyes as they focused on Thorn. His scalp prickled and Thorn wiped his forehead. His fingers came back bloody. Nikolajs' blood.</p><p>His heart answered to the realization with a lashing of his pulse.</p><p>It was touch. Direct touch, skin on skin. The rule against shirts made sense, now. His pulse grew louder as the hum of his claws faded. Thorn's eyes closed on their own accord. The world shimmered red behind his lids, then went dark. He tore down the walls around his innermost being, reached inside himself, tried to summon the family gift of the Dragons and, for the first time in his life, begged for the flame of his powers. But there was nothing, not even a spark. He found only ice pulsing along his skull in waves. </p><p>"I have won," Nikolajs said. "And the Old Gods have spoken. Accept their verdict. Accept that you're guilty and I will let you live."</p><p>Thorn opened his eyes to blackness. He was blind. Blind and clawless, his powers gone. His breath came hot and unsteady, the pounding in his head a near unbearable rhythm, fast and dark. </p><p>"Accept the verdict!" Nikolajs voice was rough. Thorn was able to make out the threat in it with ease. Maybe being blind helped with categorizing voices. He should try that when he got back to Citaceleste. There were many things he should try out when he came back home. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his mind whirling with stupid thoughts. And then did the only thing that made sense. </p><p>The world shifted around him as his memory replaced the blackness with geometric bodies and the distances between them. It was a beautiful place, a calm and safe picture of what was and what could be. A world painted with straight lines, which were abuzz from the whirling of probabilities, singing to him, encouraging him. It was his ring, his arena, his dominion. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.</p><p>Thorn sprinted three steps to the right, at an angle of about ten degrees, counting on the crowd to back away. Now. His right hand clasped the item residing at this exact place. Heat sizzled, biting red-hot into his skin. Thorn swung the heavy brazier in a wide arc that included Nikolaj's last position, as well as any potential evasive maneuvers. </p><p>A dull thud, a hiss, and an agonized scream proved him right. A heavy body fell. Trembling, Thorn lowered the brazier over the source of the sound.</p><p>"The verdict is innocent."</p><p>Thorn heard his own voice as something distorted, unfamiliar. He did not know about the full consequences of the Narcotic's touch to his forehead, but the gradual decrease of yet another sense told him that he had little time. He needed to know. Thorn could still hear murmurs rising from the crowd, swelling into shouts, then his legs folded, the metal clanged across the floor, and he sank to his knees. He ran his fingers over Nikolajs' form, finally reached the mop of hair. At the same time, something else rose from inside him, a clenching of his guts, a dizzying tremble. He knew that this feeling was of his own making. It tried to make him gag, but he swallowed it away. How he hated violence. The notion of wrecking destruction where before there had been order - blood pumping through vessels, bones and flesh sound and strong, working in harmony towards the simple objectives of the human body - it was revolting. He was revolting, for having done so. And for having reveled in it, if only for a brief moment.</p><p>He pressed onto the skull. The racket of the crowd turned into waves that thundered through his head. Then it all stopped and Thorn was engulfed by absolute silence.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ha! I always wanted to write a fight scene. How did you like it?<br/>Thank you for reading, and: never underestimate the power of a kudos or a comment! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Company</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is dedicated to Fishmish. Thank you for asking critical questions.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thorn was free to go.</p><p>He had washed, eaten, and rested; and had thanked his hosts for what he had been offered. He had not rested well, though. It had been less the fault of the swollen lump of his nose that would not let him breathe correctly, or of the dull ache in his knee. Or the rather sharp sting that came from his hands. He could ignore the pain, but not what he had learned upon searching Nikolajs's memories. The Narcotic was genuinely dangerous; in more than one way.</p><p>As he set his bandaged hands lightly onto the palisade, a fresh flare of pain told him to be cautious for a change. The skin beneath the wrappings was still blistered and raw. He had accepted the gauze but rejected the suspiciously smelling paste that came with. To scramble up the ladder had hurt, but been worth it, rewarding him with cold and wind and solitude.</p><p>He could see again.</p><p>Distant suns shot their life-force aimlessly through nothingness, only to burrow into the tiny plane of his retina. The world whirled for a moment as Thorn adjusted the positioning of his body and his thoughts. Stars. The sky was full of stars. And they glinted like pearls haphazardly strewn over a blanket of blue and black and dusky grey. There, between wisps of racing clouds, he should imagine he saw the unyielding mass and glowing lights of Citaceleste.</p><p>Except he couldn’t.</p><p>He turned when the creaking of the ladder announced company and frowned at the distinctly female figure who levered herself up onto the platform with curt, practised movements. Her breath puffed in little clouds. He backed a wary step away from the stakes, which merely reached up to his hips at this part of the defence, away from the long drop into the moat.</p><p>The redhead straightened, shook her furs, then settled deeper into them. From the depth of hood and scarf, she flashed him a smile. Thorn deepened his frown. He had not only learned to read body language, he sometimes also chose to employ it to his benefit. He had mastered a repertoire of quite effective stares, stiff expressions and gestures of dissaproval. At least he had thought so. Bozhena, however, came to stand at his side, facing the expanse of the night sky, regardless of Thorn’s best frosty glare.</p><p>He slightly raised his chin; he wouldn’t budge either.</p><p>When she spoke, her voice wove through the cloud of mist it produced.</p><p>“He is the smallest, but he stands fast while all others revolve around.”</p><p>Her gaze had settled onto something elusive and far away. Thorn made a clumsy gesture that would have been a crossing of his arms if the annoying pain hadn’t driven him back from doing so.</p><p>“What do you want.” He didn't ask a question.</p><p>“Can't you see him? Over there. Leidarstjarna lifts the sky. But Favtna, there on the other side, he draws his bow and lies in wait. And when he finally shoots him down, the sky will crumble and shatter the Arks. Then the world will be in flames and all will end.”</p><p>Thorn nearly felt a spark of hilarity at that. He put a blank look onto his face.</p><p>“We don’t own many timepieces. But we read the hours in the passage of nights and seasons. I’m on watch now. I could show you.”</p><p>Something stabbed Thorn, which surprised him. When he had regained consciousness, after the duel, his tunic had been gone. His frantic search had resulted in nothing. Save some suspicious glances. Since then, he had thought he felt the loss of his fob watch like losing a limb to the power of a Narcotic. A tingling lack of sensation. An urgent warning that something needs to be restored. But suddenly it was piercing, knifelike.</p><p>“I have to go.”</p><p>She let out a sweet laughter that grated in Thorn’s ears and then fixed him with a stare.</p><p>“Go. Go away, Treasurer. Before you are too late.”</p><p>Without looking back, Thorn braced himself for the inevitable counterpart of rising and what it meant for the skin of his hands. Then he surrendered to it. All things would even out, eventually, on a certain level. It was a law of nature. He knew that the "how" and "when" was of no consequence on the greater scale of things. He also knew that on other scales, it was essential.</p><p>Of course he would stay.</p><p>His boots landed with a rough crunching on the trampled and frozen snow covering the forecourt of the tent city. When Thorn looked up, there was nothing but the solid blackness of the wooden wall, which abruptly ended where the softer darkness of the sky began. Clouds had covered the stars. Thorn shivered.</p><p>He drew a deep breath, trying to shield out the smell. Up on the palisades, it had been bearable. Down in the yard, the thick smoke that wallowed out of the dwellings congregated, not unlike the men and women gathering around fires, fletching arrows or stretching hides, drawn by warmth, chatter and friendly jokes. There was a bustle of activity; people came and went, hauling sacks or otherwise occupied; coarse voices drowned out the splintering of logs under a sharp axe.</p><p>Thorn saw the dog boy again, who led several well-behaved animals across the place. The beasts moved through the crowd on powerful paws, tails relaxed, eyes shining. One looked up and held Thorn’s gaze for a moment, then lowered its head and, after snorting into the snow, disappeared behind a tent.</p><p>Thorn went a little faster, as much as his bruised leg allowed. He entered a tent where a copper kettle steamed above the fire and a woman was busy chopping large chunks of meat into it.</p><p>There was rarely any grain to come by down here. His inquiry after vegetables or fruit had earned him first a guffaw, then he was presented with seaweed rolled into coils and dried. Finally, a silent Persuasive girl had appeared at the entrance to Neringa’s tent, cradling a bundle which revealed a handful of small, wrinkly apples upon her careful unwrapping. Thorn knew he had to accept the gift, and done so, but it had bothered him nonetheless.</p><p>He shed his outer layer of clothing and cast around. A group of elderly men sat in silent agreement, lighting and smoking their pipes by the fire; women with rolled-up sleeves spread their treasured dough directly onto sizzling coals. A horde of children, immersed in some kind of game, came squealing from behind jacked sledges, rushing after each other.</p><p>Neringa stood conferring with Nikolajs and Giedrius. Thorn approached cautiously.</p><p>“… say that they get an opportunity. How big is the chance for a Full Implant?”</p><p>She had addressed Giedrius, who eyed Thorn shortly before he answered. “You never know. Maybe enough for a potent Suggestion? Maybe not?” The little man shrugged.</p><p>Neringa made a gesture which included slamming her fist into the open palm of her other hand. “How can we even plan like this?” She raked her hair.</p><p>“It will be a disaster. Courtesy of our Lord Treasurer here.” Nikolajs darted Thorn a glance. His hands were wrapped like Thorn’s, but he already moved them without much care, tapping the pistol he wore on his hip with his fingers. Maybe Thorn should have given the healing paste a try.</p><p>He cleared his throat. Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, whose scrutiny he met with cool focus.</p><p>“I am tired of repeating myself. There is no need to showcase your capabilities – “</p><p>A thundering roar broke through the conversation, made Thorn’s muscles clenching and stiffen out of instinct, while Neringa and Nikolajs immediately spun around and, in a flurry, pushed their way through the muttering inhabitants of the tent.</p><p>Thorn followed them as fast as he could, bad knee straining.</p><p>The forecourt had changed from a peaceful place of assemblage into military ground. Shadows and shouts climbed the palisades, manning the ramparts with spears and bows. Others stoked the fires illuminating the place, tossing log after log into them, raising flames sparking and popping into the sky. Men and women armed themselves with fiery branches, faces glowing pale in the night.</p><p>Thorn wove through the crowd, ignoring the nagging voice that told him to draw back. To stay save. To preserve and thus persevere.</p><p>Torches moved high up on the palisades, and he could make out the gleam of spears and arrows in the backlight, a hail of them cutting through the night sky. Then the first shots rang, instantly drowned out by the wailing that followed. It came from entirely too close by. Too close to safely …? His heart raced when he heard the wooden bridge crashing to the ground, accompanied by an anguished wail. All hairs in his neck bristled and stood. They wouldn’t …</p><p>The first rider crashed through the gateway, his mount a frenzy of rushing fur. A second sledge dog followed, an unconscious Persuasive slumped over the saddle. The gate rattled to the ground.</p><p>“Pull! Pull up the bridge!”</p><p>The bridge groaned and shapes up on the palisades jumped to fasten it. Bozhena would be among them. Thorn’s hand went to his thigh where there should have been a holster and a gun. He ground his teeth.</p><p>He pushed through the crowd. The ground trembled slightly, vibrating from the advance of massive paws on hardened snow. A breath reeking of hunger and hate came in with the wind.</p><p>“Up! Man the palisades! Up!” The voice had an impressive volume, but it got diminished to nothingness when a roar shook wood and earth and bones.</p><p>There. There she was, spinning, shouting orders.</p><p>“Neringa! A weapon!” She whirled around, hesitated, then pulled a pistol from beneath her robe. Thorn caught it, fingers tightening around the metal. He drew a heavy breath and prepared to make the climb for a second time today.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Never underestimate the power of a kudos or a comment.<br/>Thank you for reading!<br/>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Strategies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Milling, rushing, shouting people surrounded Thorn while he was struggling to get a grip on Neringa’s pistol that was neither clumsy nor awkward. The weapon itself was a thing as beautiful as it was vile, and concentrating on the gleam of the metal and the pattern chiseled into the wooden handhold helped him to block out the commotion. The gun was also antique; it was one of those types which would give a single shot and then be a pain to reload. Its unfamiliar weight pressed into the layers of gauze wrapped around Thorn’s fingers.</p><p>He cast a glance around, but judged it a hopeless endeavor to find ammunition storage here on the ground, among the people running into one another like ants on a stirred-up ant hill. Hoping the outcasts were organized enough to have stored weaponry where it would be needed in case of an attack, he glanced at the sentry boxes sitting high up on the palisades, at the end of the ladder he was about to climb.</p><p>Silently cursing the Invisibles who had confiscated his holster upon arresting him, he squeezed the weapon between shirt and belt, the metal radiating its cold through the thin layer of fabric and numbing his waist. His hands finally free to make the ascent, Thorn hoisted himself up the rungs, his breath puffing in one rhythm with his movements.</p><p>Halfway up, he looked down.</p><p>At first glance, chaos reigned in Tent City.</p><p>It was a swirling of shadows, speckled with flames where people were raising torches; a parody of the night sky painted upon the ground. Where the amorphous mass met with the brightness of fire, it came apart and bled into individuals, temporary satellites illuminated by the reflection of their suns.</p><p>He could easily spot Neringa, a beacon of light in her white robe. She hadn’t spared the time to put on warmer clothing; as neither had he. With no coverlet to dampen its strength, the wind blew under the fur coat he wore, cutting into his skin. Without mittens, nothing else than gauze protected his hands against frost bite. How peculiarly unprepared he was, ill-equipped and deficient. He clenched his jaw, pushed his anger aside and turned his attention back to the defense strategy.</p><p>Tent City was an island in a sea of snow, with perimeters defined by the palisades and the moat. Drawing a narrow circle around the dwellings, both constructs worked together as a defense system. A battlement crowned the top of the bulwark, a line that wound along its length as if it had grown organically, with protrusions in the form of platforms and small watch towers.</p><p>It did not look good for the outcasts. They had no cannons, hardly any firearms. Which didn't stop Neringa from sending anything onto the palisades that theoretically might inflict damage. He saw a youth climbing a nearby ladder with what looked like a sack full of stones fastened onto her back.</p><p>Thorn hauled himself further up, moving more with the push of his feet than with the pull of his hands. He was purposefully blocking out the shouts of the people on the palisades, and doing well at that. This was why a subtle tremor was the only warning he got. Something shook him, tore away his grip, flung him to the side. For a fraction of a moment, everything stood still, a splinter of existence kept in suspension. Then Thorn's world spun, lurched, became a booming roar, the crunch of wood swaying, and a cramp in the hand that had seized a hold even before he had been aware of doing so. One-handed, he clung to the ladder, waiting for what would come next, had to come next. When the pain struck, searing hot and consuming like a fire, Thorn retained control. He braced himself and swung around, his boots clacking onto the rung, and he charged up the remaining length of the ladder.</p><p>The platform measured only a few steps in length until it joined with the narrower battlements. Archers stood in line against the wind. From up here, they had seen the attack coming, had been better prepared against it than he had. Already, they formed a defensive wall on the parapet again, arm to arm, their arrows nocked, bowstrings taut. There was a strange noise in Thorn's ears. He wasn't sure if the rushing was just the wind battering against the quietness, armed with snatches of the cries carried up from below, with muted chants of courage.</p><p>He shook himself, then retrieved the pistol from his belt. His grip on the weapon was clumsy at best, if not amateurish. He flexed his fingers, sending waves of discomfort pulsing through them, displacing their numbness. The bandages at least kept his skin from getting stuck to the metal. Edging closer to the ledge, he unlocked the pistol.</p><p>Those archers who noticed him shot him glances, some of those sweeping over the pistol and staying there for a moment. Then they made room for him in their formation. The halo of a torch crossed his field of vision; he bent forward over the parapet, into a blackness that was absolute. </p><p>His breath caught for a moment. He was back in the ring, felt a trickle of liquid running from his nose, felt the wave of powerlessness crashing over him, the suffocating fear of having failed. Something even older than that threatened to resurface. <em>He lay on the floor, curled up, face sunk into his arms as if that could protect him, as if there was something that might save him, save him while his mind stood open, spread out and stretched taut like a piece of cloth over a frame. "Loser!"  Claws swept over him, teasing in their almost pleasurable tearing at his neural pathways, ready to get serious, ready to shred to pieces the very fabric that defined his being...</em> What brought him back was his own gasp. He listened to his breath, anchored himself against his heartbeat. His eyelids were clamped  together. On the intake of a breath, he bundled up his emotions and tucked them safely under a layer of rationality. He forced his eyes open and faced the darkness.</p><p>It took less than five seconds for his pupils to adjust to the new light conditions. A circle of reddish sheen, reflections of the fires and torches of Tent City, ringed the palisades like a bloody crown. The snow fields beyond were swallowed up by the smooth, velvety night. No moon, no stars.</p><p>Thorn blinked when something attracted his attention; he leaned further forward, pressed his body against the wood of the parapet, squinted his eyes. The crown was set with huge dark stones.</p><p>A chill prickled on his scalp and brushed down the back of his neck. Footprints in the snow. An irrepressible part of his brain made projections at breakneck speed. The proportions made him shudder. He cut himself off from making extrapolations before the probabilities of survival could seep into his consciousness. Instead, he called up whatever information about the species was stored in his memory. It was not much.</p><p>"Lokiukas!"</p><p>The wind had shifted and so had the warriors, moving restlessly. Their mutterings subsided into whispers. Thorn eyed them, straining to read the trembling on their lips, until movement at the corner of his field of vision broke his concentration.</p><p>He had expected for something to presage the beast, another wail or roar, a scraping of paws perhaps, a contraposition to the whirring of arrows, to the cracking of gunfire. Instead, the darkness parted in silence, as if the night itself morphed into a creature with a steely, voiceless desire. That the palisades began to vibrate, that the murmurs of the men beside him swelled, that the air grew heavy with a smell that stung the breath; all this Thorn registered but failed to take in. All he felt were the claws that drove into his stomach as he weighed the size of the beast against the height of the palisades, against the width of the moat, against the strength of their weaponry.</p><p>Thorn let his breath escape as a curse. "By Earth's Centre..." He swung the pistol and took aim.</p><p>One.</p><p>The vibration rattled through the planks as silence ceased to cling to the beast and escaped in a rush of splattering snow, in a steaming snort. A creature of night transformed into a creature of frost as the beast dashed into the ring of reflection leaking from Tent City. White fur shone as if in extension of the snowfields; an outstretched neck bore a massive head, lowered like a spear for thrust. The body was a house-sized ball of muscle, a primal force unleashed.</p><p>Thorn followed the advance with his pistol. The beast's size threatened to distort his perception, but Thorn had his own set of tools to deal with sensory deceptions. Reference points informed him of distance, speed and the most likely place of destination. A place beyond the range of his pistol.</p><p>The beast pressed on towards the palisade, body stretching, sliding, skittering over the snow. With it being large enough to surmount the wooden barricades, only the combination of palisades and moat would be able to stop it. The construct was clever; even if the beast leapt the moat, there was no way it could find a foothold at its base. Or so Thorn hoped. But should the bear overcome the defences anyway... Thorn halted himself from creating scenarios. Those would only turn his stomach, throb in his nerves, flood his thoughts. And right now he needed both his guts and his wits.</p><p>Beside him, a single arrow whizzed towards the raging white mass, vanishing unremarked.</p><p>Two.<br/><br/>Thorn counted while he tucked the pistol away and reached for a particularly massive pillar. He forced his heart into a slower pace. The polar bear had reached the snow moat, and it did not stop. Its sprint became a stretching of limbs, the forelegs lifting off. Thorn held on tight.<br/><br/>Three.<br/><br/>The world around him descended into chaos, into shaking and screaming, for a moment he thought he heard his own voice, an involuntary outburst; then Thorn blinked, became first aware of the frost-coated wood against his cheek, then the pain in his hands, then the hard, cold metal pressed against his waist. He broke away from his hold.<br/><br/>The bear had rammed the palisade, at some distance from the platform on which Thorn stood. It hung over the trench, its taut body held in suspension by the combined strength of its hind legs digging into the embankment of the moat, and its front paws pressing against the palisades. The battlements trembled as the bear tensed to increase the pressure. After the shock of the impact, the clamour of fighting rose again. Thorn did not bother with a glance back to the archers, but stumbled off the platform and onto the battlements. He ran toward the bear.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Real life happens, but I will keep writing this story. For all the readers I haven't lost despite the long hiatus, for all the new ones who have jumped on the bandwagon, for all the mirror-visitor fans out there in the vastness of the internet, a big &lt;3!</p><p>Thank you all so much for being around!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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